An Imitation of Murder (Sky High Pies Cozy Mysteries Book 9) (6 page)

CHAPTER
14

Waiting for the phone to ring is
one of the most excruciating things in the world, especially when it’s the
middle of the night and a friend’s life is in jeopardy. As I left Pia’s house
an hour earlier, Dina had promised to call as soon as they finished processing
the Volvo in the alley behind the hair salon.

After driving back to Sky High
Pies, I went into my office and attempted to develop a list of sample menu
options for an upcoming catering job. But the effort ended in frustration. I
couldn’t stop thinking about Pia: the tangle of fear and torment in her voice
the last time we spoke, the horror in her eyes the previous day at Vito
Marclay’s house, and the news that her car had been abandoned in an alley.

When it was obvious that working on
menu ideas wasn’t going to be enough to distract me, I went into the kitchen
and made a cup of tea. Then I watched the clock on the wall, staring at the
slender red second hand as it ticked past the black numbers.

“Come on, Dina,” I muttered to the
silent room. “How long can it take to drive over and check out Pia’s car?”

I repeated the question a few more
times before the phone finally rang shortly before five.

“Are you still awake?” asked Dina.

“Yep. It’s just me and a cup of
lukewarm tea over here.”

“Well, I wish there was better
news,” she said.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“About Pia?”

“Yes,” I said, feeling my heart
race again. “None of this makes sense. I mean, she’s a caterer who wouldn’t
hurt a fly. She gets along with everyone, volunteers at the food pantry and—”

“Slow down,” Dina interrupted. “You
sound like you’re about to hyperventilate.”

“I think we’re way past that point.
Do you know how many awful scenarios have run through my mind?”

“Probably the same number that I’ve
been thinking about,” she answered. “The good news is we didn’t find her in the
Volvo’s trunk.”

“How is that good news?”

“I’m going to stay optimistic,”
Dina said. “I’m going to believe that she’s out there somewhere, unharmed and
soon to be released.”

“You’re right. Staying hopeful is
the best approach.”

She chuckled softly.

“What’s funny?” I asked.

“Not funny,” she said. “Surprising.
You’re the one who’s usually so upbeat about everything.”

I thought about the comment for a
moment. Dina was right; optimism and hope were the hallmarks of my personality.
Somewhere between the first call from Pia when she was at Vito Marclay’s house
to her inexplicable disappearance overnight, my mood had shifted away from its
usual buoyant, sanguine center toward a gloomier place.

“Okay,” I said after brushing away
the comparisons. “Anything on the car?”

“The Aston Martin?”

“Yes, the one in the driveway at
Pia’s.”

“It’s a rental,” she said. “We’ll
check with the agency later today to find out who signed the contract.”

“And then?” I asked. “What’s our
next step?”

Dina laughed again. “I don’t know
about you,” she said. “But I’m going home to take a shower and change my
clothes. Trent called a meeting for seven to go over what we know so far and I
want to be a little more refreshed than I am at the moment.”

“Sounds about right,” I said.

“What’s going on over there, Katie?
Don’t you usually get out of bed at this hour?”

“Close to it,” I said. “If it was a
normal morning, I’d be just about ready to come downstairs and start the first
pot of coffee. But I’ll be racing up there in a second or two to get dressed
for the day.”

“We both deserve a nice long nap at
some point,” she joked. “Although that point might be a few days from now.”

“No doubt,” I grumbled. “Will you
call me as soon as you know something about Pia?”

“Absolutely,” Dina told me. “And
vice versa. I know you’ll be doing your own thing around town, Katie. Let me
know if you uncover anything relevant to the case, okay?”

CHAPTER
15

The morning was a blur of prep
tasks, special orders and one cup of coffee after the next. By noon, I felt simultaneously groggy and fully awake, like half of my body was upstairs
snuggled in bed and the other half was bouncing around the Sky High kitchen.
Julia and Harper had both heard the news about Pia and Vito, but we’d been so
busy that there wasn’t much time to speculate about the situation.

“Your mom’s on the phone,” Harper
called through the pass window around two-thirty as I stared at the remaining
prep list. “Want me to take a message?”

I shook my head. “She’ll just call
back in a couple of hours,” I said. “What line is she on?”

Harper smiled. “The one that’s
blinking,” she said. “I guess you haven’t noticed, but it’s a pretty darn slow
day out here.”

I’d been so focused on working at
the back counter while Julia handled breakfast and lunch orders that I hadn’t
realized the dining room wasn’t very full.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

Harper shrugged. “Who knows? We
were slammed all last week, so maybe people are giving their waistlines a
break.”

Julia snickered. “Not everything we
sell is fattening,” she said.

“Name three things,” Harper teased.

Julia thought for a moment before
offering a list: spinach salad with grilled chicken, an egg white omelet with
fresh herbs and a bowl of oatmeal with raisins.

“You forgot ice water,” I said. “And
a naked angel food cupcake with fresh fruit!”

I could hear them calling out
additional suggestions as I headed for the office. Once I was behind the desk,
I punched the blinking light on the phone and greeted my mother with as much
gusto as I could manage.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

“Nothing.”

“Katie? I’m your mother. I’ve been
your mother for the past thirty years, six months and five days. I know when
something’s wrong.”

“Me, too,” I said. “You’ve got too
much time on your hands if you’re counting how long it’s been since I was
born.”

“Nonsense!” my mother snipped. “The
day you were born was the most memorable of my life.”

“What about Brody and Olivia?”

She giggled. “Ditto for them. You
three are the best things that ever happened to your father and me.”

“That’s sweet, mom.”

“So?” she said. “Are you going to
tell me what’s wrong or do I have to pull it out of you?”

I knew it was futile to resist, so
I told her about Pia Lincoln and Vito Marclay, finishing with the fact that
they were both missing.

“That’s horrible,” she gasped.
“Does Trent Walsh have any leads?”

“They’re working on it,” I said.
“Dina Kincaid’s actually handling most of the investigation.”

“That’s good, dear. Men are truly
dynamic in plenty of situations, but I believe women do a more thorough job
with really sensitive matters.”

I smiled to myself, but didn’t say
a word.

“Don’t you agree, Katie?”

“I’ll tell you what I agree with,”
I said. “My mother is one of the smartest, kindest, most loving people on the
planet.”

She didn’t respond for a few
seconds. Then she said, “How much?”

“How much what?”

“How much do you need to borrow?”
she asked.

I laughed and told her that I
didn’t need a loan.

“Well, whenever your brother and
sister butter me up like that, it usually means they want money.”

“We’re actually doing really well
this month,” I said. “We’ve increased the average number of covers for
breakfast and lunch. The new carryout menu is getting tons of action and really
good compliments. And the catering jobs are on track for a record year.”

“Your father and I are both very
proud of you, Katie.”

“Thanks, mom. I appreciate that so
much.”

“You’re a very impressive young
woman,” she said. “Smart and sweet and willing to go the extra mile to help
anyone you meet.”

I stayed quiet for a few seconds.
Then I said, “How much?”

My mother gasped again. “What are
you talking about?”

“Whenever someone pours it on that
heavy, they usually want money or a favor.”

She laughed. “Touché! You got me,
Katie!”

“See? I know how you operate, Mrs.
Reed.”

“You do,” she said. “But I’m not
very good at being sneaky.”

“What’s on your mind, mother?”

“My friend Honey Tabler’s birthday
is tomorrow,” she said. “And it completely slipped my mind. Normally, I’d send
her a card and small gift. But I was hoping you could whip up a nice cake for
her. Do you think? Something with pink and yellow roses, maybe vanilla with a
raspberry crème between the layers?”

“I can do that,” I said. “Do you
want anything written on top? Like, maybe her age or something?”

My mother snorted. “Honey’s no
longer revealing her real age,” she said. “I asked her a few weeks ago. Know
what she said?”

“Maybe sixty-six?” I guessed.

Another loud snort came over the
line. “Try
fifty-seven
!” my mother roared. “She and I started in first
grade at the same time! How can
I
be sixty-six and Honey’s suddenly nine
years younger? The poor thing has obviously been watching too much reality
television. She actually believes that the anti-aging serum she slathers on her
face every night is peeling away years as well as dead skin cells.”

“I saw Honey last week when she was
in with Blanche and Hildy for lunch,” I said. “She actually looked pretty darn
good.”

“Well, why not?” my mother said.
“She finally talked her husband into a face lift, tummy tuck and collagen
injections.”

“For him?” I teased. “Or for her?”

My mother exhaled loudly. “Don’t be
silly,” she said. “Did you hear about Honey’s trip to see her sister and
brother-in-law in Tucson a couple of months ago?”

“I did. She showed me some of the
pictures on her phone.”

“Well, aren’t you gullible?” my
mother said sharply. “I have it on good authority that Honey went to Los
Angeles for a little nip and tuck. The glamour shots with her sister were
from two years ago.”

“How can you be so sure?” I asked.

“Because,” my mother said, “Honey
told Blanche the truth. And Blanche told Hildy who told Roxie who sent an email
to Dot Walker in Seattle.”

I laughed at the list. Then I said,
“So…what? Dot called you?”

“Heavens, no!” my mother said. “Dot
put it on Facebook. So now the whole world knows that most of Honey Tabler is
sixty-six while her face, tummy and caboose are as fresh and dewy as newborn
baby’s rump!”

CHAPTER
16

As I sat behind my desk in the Sky
High office a few minutes after three that afternoon, paying bills and
scribbling ideas for a new cookie recipe, I suddenly remembered the deposit
slip that Pia had found at Vito Marclay’s the previous night. I’d taken a quick
picture of it with my phone before she gave it to the CCPD forensics team.
Whether it was my intuition as a former PI or some other gut instinct, I sensed
that I would probably want to investigate possible connections between the
blood-spattered piece of paper and the pillaged scene in Vito’s living room.

“No time like the present,” I said
to myself, closing the Sky High checkbook.

I plucked my phone from the desk
and quickly navigated to the photograph of the deposit slip. It revealed three
intriguing clues: the logo for a large national bank; the account holder’s
name—E. A. Hoffmann; and, a mailing address on Pine Grove Lane in Steamboat
Springs.

Since it was highly unlikely that
the bank would divulge anything over the phone, I decided to hit the road for a
quick drive. It was early enough in the day that I could head north, do some
snooping around and get back to Sky High before seven.

“You leaving now?” Julia asked when
I appeared in the kitchen a few minutes later.

“How’d you know?” I asked.

She put one hand on her hip. “Uh,
well…” She gave me the once over and smiled. “The purse, car keys, travel mug
and jacket are pretty obvious, Katie. Not to mention that look on your face.”

“What look?”

She giggled. “The I’m-in-a-rush-don’t-get-in-my-way
look.”

I dashed over, held up my hand for
a high five and then thanked her for the incredible job during the frantic
lunch rush earlier in the day.

“You’re welcome,” she said. “I
couldn’t have done it without you.”

After we exchanged a few words
about the prep list for the next morning, I went out the backdoor, climbed into
the car and set off for Steamboat Springs.

Luckily, traffic was light, I
didn’t need to make any pit stops and the cup of coffee that I’d fixed before
leaving gave me just enough of a caffeine buzz that I was focused and vigilant
as I followed the GPS directions to my destination on Pine Grove Lane.

“Okay, this isn’t what I expected,”
I said, parking in front of a business service center called Make It, Mail It
& More. “I was hoping to discover that Mr. Hoffmann lived in maybe a normal
house, not a strip mall.”

After checking to make sure that I
had the right address, I headed inside to see if someone might be willing to
answer a few questions. A middle-aged man and younger woman were behind the
counter staring at an issue of
People
magazine. When they glanced up, I
introduced myself, explained the reason for my visit and showed them the copy
of the deposit slip on my phone. I noticed a name tag pinned to the man’s
shirt:
ARLO FRANKS, ASSISTANT MANAGER
.

“I’m not telling you a thing about
him!” he barked. “We have
very
strict policies to protect our clients
and their privacy.”

The young woman offered a
sympathetic smile as I expanded on the reason for my visit.

“The thing is,” I said, grinning at
the grouchy authoritarian figure in his Make It, Mail It & More uniform
shirt, “I’m trying to help the police in Crescent Creek locate a couple of
people who are missing.”

Arlo wrinkled his nose. “If you’re
a cop,” he demanded harshly, “let me see your badge.”

“That’s the other thing,” I said,
increasing the wattage on my smile from
Really Friendly and Nice
to
Absolutely
the Least Threatening and Most Honest Person You’ll Ever Meet
. “I’m not
with the Crescent Creek PD. I used to be a private investigator in Chicago, and
I—”

“Used to be?” His voice squeaked
slightly. “That doesn’t make you anything.”

I felt a faint whir of anger
stirring deep inside. My credibility and character had just been challenged by
a pudgy middle-aged guy wearing suspenders and a baggy pair of khakis along
with his bright yellow shirt.

As I kept my eyes on Arlo, the
young woman scooped up a notebook, mumbled something about taking a break and
headed outside.

“Normally,” Arlo said, “that kind
of thing wouldn’t be allowed here. But she’s my cousin, right?” He rubbed his
chin between one chubby thumb and forefinger. “Plus, you know, she’s studying
art history, so this is probably the best place she’ll ever work. My district
supervisor would have a total meltdown, but I cut her some slack on account of
we’re related and stuff.”

“I get that,” I said. “How about
cutting me some—”

“Not possible!” he yelped. “Our
corporate office just sent out a new employee guidebook last month, and one of
the biggest infractions they talked about was people who disclose sensitive
information about customers to unauthorized individuals.”

He smiled. There was something
between two of his bottom teeth, but I wasn’t about to let him know. It would
be my luck that doing a good deed might violate one of the guidebook’s other
gazillion rules.

“How about this?” I suggested. “If
I say a name and it rings any bells, you can just touch your nose with one
finger. That way, you’re not violating the rule about
telling
someone
about a customer.”

He shook his head. “No can do.
That’s a nonverbal. There’s a big chunk of Appendix A devoted to nonverbal
communication and how you can breach customer confidentiality just as easily by
doing something like that.”

“By touching your finger to your
nose?”

He lifted one arm and touched his
nose. “Yeah, exactly like that.”

I could tell that I wasn’t going to
get anywhere with Mr. Weisenheimer, so I thanked him for his time, swiveled
back toward the door and prepared to exit the Land of No Can Do.

“Sure you don’t need to make or
mail anything?” Arlo called.

“I’m good,” I said over my
shoulder. “But I appreciate the offer.”

As I reached for the door, it
suddenly swung open and the young woman who’d gone outside was standing on the
sidewalk with a faint grin on her face.

“Have a nice day,” she murmured.

“Thank you,” I said.

As I crossed the threshold and
walked past her, I heard her whisper an odd remark.

“Windshield,” she said. “Check your
windshield.”